


100 ways to care about you

by jakrster



Category: Alice in Wonderland (Movies - Burton), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Ginny Weasley, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Seer Luna Lovegood, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakrster/pseuds/jakrster
Summary: Collection of texts (drabbles or OS) on the theme '100 ways to care about you'. Rating M, just in case. Don't hesitate to make any suggestions!
Relationships: Alice Kingsleigh/Ilosovic Stayneosovic Stayne, Jack Sparrow/Elizabeth Swann, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty, Quirinus Quirrell/Voldemort, Theodore Nott/Blaise Zabini
Kudos: 15





	1. Moondust [Luna/Ginny]

The first time she met Luna was in a common potions class, in their first year. The Ravenclaw had sat that morning directly next to Ginny, without exchanging a word or a look with her. The ginger had looked at her in astonishment, her mouth slightly ajar.

Unable to pronounce anything.

Ginny's mind was too busy analyzing what her eyes perceived. The purple flowers slipped into her long blond, almost yellow hair. A strawberry-shaped jewel and a button hanging from her earlobes. Several different necklaces - one made with dry pasta, one with feathers, one with marbles and one with a large sphere hanging from it - encircled a thin and slender neck.

Snape was definitely going to make a fool of that girl. Ginny cleared her throat.

"Hello?" she greeted, unable to hold back her questioning tone.

"You don't sound so sure." Luna said.

"Well, –" she said.

"Professor Snape will put us together for practical work."she explained.

"Snape will put us... together?" Ginny's voice was slurping, trying to understand what this strange girl was saying. "How could you possibly know?"

"I've seen it." said Luna. "By the way, what's your name?"

"...Ginevra. _Ginny_. Weasley."

"Nice to meet you, Ginevra Ginny Weasley."

"No, no. Only, Ginny." articulated the ginger. "How did you...? How did you know?"

"Sometimes I see things."

That explanation wasn't enough for her. However, she realized that she was going to have to comply when Snape entered the classroom slamming the door and making his usual cape noise. Ten minutes later, he announced the work shifts and it turned out that both young women were right.

They were put together for work. Just as Luna had announced.

Snape didn't spare the Ravenclaw with his scathing remarks. As Ginny had guessed.

.

.

The ginger quickly realized that Luna had... a gift. The teenager had never had confirmation from the blonde, but she knew that somehow her friend could see predicting elements, events, _things_.

For example, one December morning in their first year, Luna had mentioned to her - ordered her, rather - to stop writing in that black notebook.

Ginny didn't listen. In retrospect, it was one of her greatest regrets.

In their second year, she had suggested that Neville kill Ron's rat. She had given no clear explanation for it, and the third-year student had been so scared by the idea that he had avoided Luna for a month.

Sometimes she would announce the score of Quidditch games before they were scheduled. At other times, Luna would participate in a conversation as if she had already lived it.

Ginny had never known, exactly, where the Ravenclaw's knowledge of the future lay.

.

.

However, Luna's prediction, which kept turning over and over in Ginny's mind, was futile. It was all about them. A promise, almost.

One day, Ginevra _would love_ Luna.

.

.

It would be bad faith to say Dean was lame.Lying in the canopy bed of the sixth-grade Gryffindor, the young man kissed her insistently. The pelvic movements that accompanied it were meant to be precise, but...

But Ginny thought. Her mind was occupied with extraneous thoughts like Quidditch's last practice or her astronomy homework. Her hands grabbed around Dean's arms in a purely routine gesture as he ran out of breath and she... nothing.

He had tried to rearrange her uterus, her insides, and it should - must - have been fireworks, seventh heaven, but nothing. The ginger didn't have high expectations, either. She had never been within a hundredth of an orgasm during sex.

Until now, Dean had been the only one. And, Ginny's interest in this... activity diminished with each attempt.

He stopped after a long grunt and caught his breath. Dean looked at her and the ginger shook her head to answer his silent question - she still knew what an orgasm looked like.

His fingers began a mechanical movement and Ginny bent her body to help him and - _yes_ , it was a very good start.

Ginny closed her eyes and instinctively she imagined, fantasized. Two big blue eyes appeared in her thoughts. Blue eyes as deep as the ocean, eyes she could have plunged into and drowned in. Ginny barely contorted a groan that tore her throat.

Then a cherry-red mouth kissing her skin, long, thin fingers instead of those who searched her, stroked her and then - _shit, ah yes, yes_. Ginny's head turned back and her body tensed in the most wonderful sensation.

When she opened her eyes, dazed, the teenager was surprised not to see the face of the one whose name had just died on her lips.

.

.

The corridors were deserted - unsurprising for a Saturday afternoon. Ginny walked to the library to borrow a book to complete an assignment. When she turned a corner, she slammed on the brakes.

Sitting on the floor, leaning against the bricks of the castle, Luna was reading a book, holding it upside down. The ginger had a smile on her face when she saw that she was wearing the colorful tights she had given her for her birthday. The Ravenclaw had a collection of them in every pattern and color.

She was so beautiful. She glowed. She was a star - a moon or a sun.

"You were right." announced the Gryffindor, without further explanation.

Luna raised her head, squinted her eyes, and then... a smile appeared on her lips. Ginny coughed, suddenly embarrassed, and continued on her way.

As if nothing had happened. Luna's predictions were still true.


	2. Moondust [Luna/Ginny]

Theodore tightened his jacket against him - a vain attempt to hide the freezing state that was beginning to take hold of him. At this stage, the young man felt as if ice was wrapped around his bones and his organs had been plunged into the Hogwarts lake in the middle of winter.

 _So that's how Potter had felt in the fourth grade during the second task_ , Theodore thought, who had always believed that the Survivor had to be suicidal to participate in the Triwizard Tournament.

Blaise, at his side, was shivering. Yet he was much less concerned about his own condition than that of his best friend: he kept looking at him as if he anticipated that he would faint from one moment to the next. Blaise had always argued that his friend's health was fragile - if not non-existent. In his opinion, the current situation was useless and would only cause Theodore to contract pneumonia.

However, Theo stubbornly refused to let them disappear. They had been on the run since the end of the Battle of Hogwarts to avoid the trial that would surely ensue when an auror confirmed the existence of the Dark Mark on their forearm. Theodore had decreed that they should avoid using magic. Blaise had followed this - rightly believing that arguing would be pointless. On the other hand, he considered the rain they were trying to escape under the bright yellow plastic canopy of a Liverpool's Muggle Shop to be a justifiable reason to use magic.

"I'd kill for a hot chocolate." Theodore sighed, his eyes staring at the rain with an annoyed look on his face.

Blaise refrained from commenting that if he'd agreed to his proposal to disappear, they wouldn't be soaking wet and sitting in front of a steaming mug. Instead, he pulled two muggle's bars of chocolate out of a pocket of his own jacket. Theodore loved chocolate. It was no secret to him and he had learned that to buy peace, there was nothing better than this sweet treat. The Slytherin handed one to his best friend.

"Better than nothing, I suppose." Nott thanked.

Blaise turned his gaze to the raindrops in order to curb the smile that threatened to invade his lips. Although Theo had tried to maintain an indifferent tone, he looked like a child one Christmas morning when he bite into the piece of chocolate.

Once again, he wondered how his friend could have ended up in the ranks of the Dark Lord. He was gentle, sensitive behind the concrete wall that he put up for others so that he would not be hurt. The image of Theodore's father seeped into his thoughts as the one and only reason. Blaise couldn't stop a disgruntled sigh from crossing his lips.

He had never hesitated to embrace the cause of the Death Eaters. It had always made sense to him. He knew, however, that Theodore was a different person. He'd never wanted it. He only wanted to do it out of obligation - he had been forced to do it. Blaise had more than once surprised the bitter look on his best friend's face at the tattoo that would forever adorn his arm.

Even though Blaise would never admit it to him, it was only for his sake that he was running away from it. The Slytherin was willing to do anything when it included the young man in the bill.

He shook his head and swallowed a piece of his own chocolate bar.

"We're playing a game. "decided Blaise, bored by the silence in which they were plunged. "I ask a question, you answer. You ask a question, I answer."

"What's the point? "asked Theodore, confused by his friend's proposal.

"None. Just, uh... We'll think of something else besides the damn rain." he explained, shrugging his shoulders. "he explained, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah, and if you don't want to answer. We're disappearing. If I don't want to answer, I swear I'll stop fighting back."

Theodore squinted as he watched him.

"That sounds right to me." he agreed.

"That's fine. Soooooooo. " Blaise thought, for a few seconds. Then his face lit up. "You've seen your mother lately?"

His interlocutor glanced at him sideways, a little suspicious.

"Lately it's vague... Why are you asking me this question?"

"Five seconds and you're breaking the rules." sighed Blaise, dramatic. "For this time, I agree to answer you."

"Nice."

"Isn't it? That's my middle name." he jokes, biting into his chocolate bar again. "Every time you look at your dark mark, I assume you're thinking of your father. You imply it a lot when you talk. But I've never heard you talk about your mother."

Theodore watched him, stunned. He hadn't noticed that Blaise paid so much attention to these little details. He was unable to articulate anything for several seconds. Just like looking away from the dark eyes of his best friend. He forced himself to pull himself together.

"No, the last time I saw my mother, I was six years old." he managed to pronounce.

"Oh," teased the person he was talking to. "... Is she dead?"

He shook his head and Blaise felt his lips wince instantly.

"Sorry."

He instinctively approached him and the black-skinned man repressed his impulse to take him by the shoulders and embrace him. Theodore didn't seem to care about his trouble and simply shrugged his shoulders.

"Your turn." Blaise's formula, trying to erase the scent of discomfort that was forming between them.

The brown man put his head against the brick wall of the shop and took time to think about the question he was about to ask - no wonder, given how rational and thoughtful the young man was.

"What is your favourite potion?"

" _What_?" he replied, frowning.

"What, what? It's a valid question."

"A lousy question, you mean." Blaise argumented, sighed. "Take two."

"You just came out of nowhere with the rules right now." Theodore took offense. He received as his only answer an equivocal look, which meant 'Are you really surprised'. "All right, then... So, what's your favorite part?"

"...honestly? The time we sat in that shitty little parking lot late at night, eating those disgusting chips from the gas station with the broken sign."

Theodore knew exactly when he was referring to. It was last Friday. They'd been walking for hours, without stopping. Blaise had decreed, at one point, that he had to sit down and Theo had accepted, with a sigh. He felt, at times, so disconnected from reality - always harping on bad memories or running away from the nightmares that crawled through his mind, both awake and asleep - that he no longer paid attention to any physical pain.

No, actually, the pain in his feet reminded him that he was still alive.

They had shared a bag of faded potato chips as a makeshift meal, while Blaise had yakked about everything and nothing. In spite of himself, Theodore had listened to him and for a while, he had forgotten. There was no more running away, no more pain, no more bad memories. There was only Blaise and him - _especially Blaise_.

"...Seriously? Why?" he eyebrowed, finally.

Blaise took a long breath. He also inspired courage.

"Because it was the first time I ever saw you smile for real."

Theodore couldn't soften the look of dismay in his eyes. Nor could he temper the run of his heart rate. He wanted to kiss him. A sudden impulse that took up all the space in his mind. Blaise overshadowed everything. He no longer had any control over how to oxygenate his body, nor over his stomach, which was twisting in an impressive knot.

"For real?'

His voice was so hoarse he barely recognized her. Blaise nodded. Slowly. The fingers of the introvert took hold of his friend's fingers.

Then, unable to escape the searing need, Theodore kissed him.

Slowly, to give him time to push him away if the urge wasn't mutual. Although Theo allowed himself to wonder if he could humanly survive the rejection of his best friend. Blaise's lips hardly moved, too surprised to react. And, suddenly, he was everywhere. His broad hands grasped his jacket to reduce the distance between them. His lips became insatiable, his tongue danced a burning ballet with his own, and he collected each of his grunts as if he were collecting them. They found themselves in the rain, but neither paid attention, too busy discovering the new part the other was offering.

And though Theodore's heart threatened tachycardia and arrhythmia as Blaise sensually bit his lower lip, he felt that all those years of being with his friend made sense. He could feel the raindrops settling on his skin as his friend slipped his hands under his sweater, stroking his waist, his navel and - oh, Theodore made a sudden groan as he ventured down the top of his pants.

He stepped back, almost dazed that he was no longer protected by the awning, his brown curls falling on his forehead. Blaise's eyes were devouring him, while his fingers were still clinging to the straps of his trousers. Possessively.

"We're going to drink hot chocolate." said Blaise. "We're going to drink a hot chocolate and we're not going to walk the damn miles. Because I'm going to spend all my time kissing you and you're going to get pneumonia and sinusitis."

Theodore nodded quickly, without hesitation.

If asked about his favorite moment, he would certainly answer: that day, when we took refuge under the awning of a shop, you gave me chocolate and I kissed you for the first time in my life. Theodore didn't doubt it. Even with a hurricane in his head, molten lava in every place Blaise touched and a bomb in his heart.


	3. Rough guy [Molly/Moriarty]

Molly wasn't mad at him. Even if she wanted to be. She wanted to feel anger at the outrageous way Jim had manipulated her feelings. She wanted to feel disdain for him. She wanted to _hate_ him with all her heart.

Even when Moriarty wrapped his hands around her slender neck, as he held her motionless against a wall in his kitchen, and watched her with an uncontrolled insanity, Molly couldn't do it. The oxygen was slipping away from her. Her vision became blurry - speckled with black and white spots. In a few minutes, if he didn't let go of her hold, she'd be out of breath.

Yet she felt drawn to his dementia. She admired the dark aura that emanated from him and seemed to wrap itself around them like tentacles, and which kept her psychologically prisoner of him, fascinated.

In a way, Molly - _the so sweet Molly Hooper, the so devoted Molly Hooper_ \- recognized herself in this soul as black as the abyss. She was more stupefied by this discovery than the threat of her own death.

"You will not make me a monster." Molly let go, in a choppy, determined voice.

An amused sneer appeared on Jim's lip as these words were spoken. He relaxed his grip around her neck. His touch felt more like a caress than a condemnation, and she struggled to control her breathing, which filled her lungs.

"My angel, you are already one." he breathed.

He caressed a cheekbone and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. As if he wanted to engrave this fact in his soul, Jim violently crushed his lips on his own. Every contact with him was a novelty in itself: destructive, gentle, violent, passionate. Molly explored a range of emotions that made her head spin as her lips responded, like an entity unique to the ardour of the kiss.

The young woman wasn't kissing Jim, the sweet boyfriend she hadn't liked but who she had thought had the potential to make Sherlock feel jealous. She was not kissing James Moriarty, the consulting criminal. She was embracing a monster who completed her soul like a piece of a puzzle sought and found. She felt like a butterfly drawn to a blinding light - and unconsciously she had made her choice.

He had the potential to become his own personal hell. And, Molly's fascination with death was too strong to turn down the offer to damn herself.


	4. The final illusion [Quirrel/Voldemort]

Tom Riddle was as insidious as an anxiety attack. 

He had this painful - and at the same time wonderful - feeling that he was getting under his skin to become a new bone, a new organ essential to his survival. Quirrell felt as fragile as a sand castle struck by the Atlantic: he felt his heart choking, his lungs compressing, his coherent thoughts ratifying themselves. 

Quirrell couldn't keep anything from him, ever again.

Tom, _Voldemort_ , was dancing under his skin. He was marking his soul. He was damaging his sanity. He took everything Quirrell was willing to give him. _Everything_. Without asking for anything, except maybe one illusion. 

"I never wanted to love you." he murmured, as he felt the vise on his heart tighten as the philosopher's stone consumed his skin. 

If Voldemort still thought he could reach the child, Quirrell had understood: the Dark Lord would not hesitate to sacrifice the Ravenclaw's soul. He felt no anger - only an echo that resonated like his survival instinct - only resignation. 

His skin was torn to ashes while his soul was lacerated under a million fires. Rarely had he felt such pain.

I know. He didn't know if Tom was capable of love, but from that thought, from those two words, there came a strange wave of tenderness for him. Maybe it was a lie. Quirrell didn't want to know. This illusion - true or false - was enough for him.

He drew his last breath. Beloved. 


	5. This isn't goodbye [Jack/Elizabeth]

For a handful of seconds, Jack didn't mind the handcuffs she had just slipped around her wrists. Elizabeth's caressing lips kept him busy enough for his mind to understand that she had just chained him to the Black Pearl's mast - _to his death_. That first kiss tasted like ashes, regret and bitterness. A tormented desire that could not find relief.

The pirate lowered his gaze on this woman who possessed the devil's beauty. Jack moistened his lips as he admired the features of the one who had beaten her. The one who looked like him enough to trap him as he would have done. Yet Elizabeth did not gloat. Her eyes, as blue as the ocean he loved so much, seemed to be about to fill with tears.

"Pirate..." he blew, provocatively, his lips still brushing against the young woman's sulky lips.

"I'm not sorry." she argued as the one and only answer.

Nevertheless, her whole body said otherwise. Delivering him to this death was killing her. However, it was the only thing to do. It was the only thing to do so that they all survived - the law of the many had won out over the law of feelings.

Her whole mind screamed that she loved him when she walked away from him. Her whole mind screamed that she would do anything to find him. Against all odds.


	6. Revolution [Alice/Stayne]

_Alice._ This name suited her terribly better than the pseudonym she had given herself, at court, to hide her identity.

 _Alice._ This name was terribly better suited to her beauty, which fascinated him, than the vulgar Um. Beyond her height, Stayne could hardly take his eyes off that hair, which fell like captivating golden waves on her back or her sulky lips that reminded him of the colour of blood.

 _Alice._ He liked the sound in his mouth. He liked it to sound like a secret that only he, at the court of the Queen of Hearts, was in complicity with. He had felt infinitely privileged when she had whispered this confidence to him, while his fingers drew constellations on her milky skin.

 _Alice._ She turned in his thoughts like a spinning top, tireless. Fortunately, the queen was not able to read her thoughts. Stayne's head would have already fallen in this case.

 _Alice._ She was warming his heart of stone. No one had ever looked at him that way before. Stayne had never believed he had to experience the heartbreaking situation of having to decide between feelings and reason. Would he give up his whole life for her? The assassin may not have been ready to embrace the resistance, but he could protect her from the Queen. It was more within his grasp.

 _Alice._ The name of his revolution.


End file.
